Last Sunday, after more searing pain in my chest and abdomen, I was taken to the hospital in Great Falls and given an emergency ultra-sound. Not-so-shockingly, I had gall stones. They arranged for surgery immediately.

I was scared witless. I’m not ashamed (okay, maybe a LITTLE ashamed) to admit that the very idea of being unconscious while someone hacked away at my insides made me want to live with the pain forever and ever, except that forever would have been drastically shortened to forafewmonths.

They admitted me and I signed a variety of paperwork, most of which was a blur due to the amazing drugs they were feeding me – I felt like I was floating, everything was disjointed and surreal. They decided to starve me (not that appetite was an issue at that point, or at least not until my older brother ate a slab of CHEESECAKE in front of me) and put me in one of those papery cotton gowns with the buttons no one can seem to figure out.

Surgery sucked. The surgeon assured us it would take a half an hour to forty-five minutes. It took an hour and a half (at which point my friends were gnawing on their cuticles, wondering about death and dismemberment), apparently because my gall bladder was very badly infected, not to mention loaded down with “a bunch of stones” – the doctor’s exact words. Ah, bliss.

They outfitted me with a draining tube (capital Y.U.C.K.) and wheeled me upstairs, where the nurse actually asked me to STAND UP to walk to the bed, despite the massive amount of morphine in my blood stream, which was doing surprisingly little for the pain. My friend Kate claims that I looked at the nurse, sporting a disturbing pallor and sunken black eyes hazed with drugs and confusion and said, in utter disbelief, “Are you kidding?”

They were not. I hate to sound like a big crybaby, but people, THE PAIN. It was not like anything I’ve ever felt. I’ve been forced to re-evaluate my tolerance for pain in general! I’m not a wimp, and I wanted to curl up and DIE when I stood up. Kate claims I went, if possible, EVEN WHITER, before my knees buckled and the nurse had to catch me.

Just to keep things in perspective, evidently surgery and intense pain don’t hinder my vanity one little bit. I have very fuzzy memories of this, but I went to pee and while washing my hands I’m told there was a sharp intake of breath; everyone rushed to the doorway to see what was the matter. I was gaping at my reflection, and a second later declared: “Well, fuck, I’m not winning any beauty contests today.”

Yes. I’m really a lovely person once you get to know me.

I was in the hospital until late Tuesday afternoon, still being starved and drugged regularly. They removed the draining tube despite the nurse’s concern that she wanted it to be considerably less full before removal, and YEOWCH. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable the damn thing was until they yanked it from my side, very quickly. And how LONG. There was at least eight extra inches crammed into my abdomen, I swear.

ANYWAY.

Guess what? I was happy to be home. Home in my own bed, doped up on Percocet and snuggling with my cat. She nearly died when hopping directly onto my freshly stitched gut, but was too fast in moving her ass out of the way when I screamed for me to succeed in killing her.

Wednesday I started feeling worse. I was dizzy and sweating. I could still hardly eat. I kept thinking about what the nurse said, about feeling a little better every day. I ate about three bites of the porkchop my grandma made me and shuffled off to bed.

I ended up passing out in the middle of the night after getting up to go to the bathroom, and naturally fell on my stomach. Hard. After quitting the Percocet (which I blamed for the incident) and trying to eat breakfast highly unsuccessfully (HELLO, projectile vomit) I called the doctor.

Thursday at noon I was back in the hospital here in town, being diagnosed with an infected liver as well as severe dehydration. Complications of surgery, they said. I’m happy to say that after getting admitted AGAIN and jabbed with an IV needle AGAIN (I have “bad veins”, which I take to mean they’re small and far below the skin’s surface) and pumped full of antibiotics, they only kept me overnight before shipping me home – with a sizable list of very foul-tasting prescriptions.

Hello, pending hospital bills. It’s nice to meet you. What’s that? I owe thousands of dollars? GREAT. I can totally afford that. Thank god for my insurance. Oh, wait, my deductible is high. Goodbye, income tax refund (and new digital camera).

There’s an interesting twist in all of this: my sister-in-law, Joy, was also admitted to the hospital in Great Falls and operated on, to have her gall bladder removed, on the same day. She did not get an infection and end up back in the hospital. Some ladies have all the luck.

One of the sad truths about me is that I really suck at money management. About the time I find myself in possession of a dollar, it’s well on it’s way to being spent. A good portion of the time I’ve already spent my dollars before I actually have them. I’m hopeless. I hate being broke and stressing about money more than almost anything, and yet I continue to make decisions that end with my digging frantically for change so I can buy milk. MILK.

I make good money. I’m not rich or anything, but I should always be able to afford milk (and eggs, and every other food) when I need to. I should never have to scrounge for nickels and dimes and duck my head sheepishly to avoid making eye contact with the clerk because I just HAD to have that book or those shoes or that night out on the town.

My mother was equally bad at handling finances (of course, she was doing so when floating a check was a viable possibility, before the digital age neatly removed the option), and while I’d like nothing more than to lay the blame for my financial irresponsibility with her I can’t. She died long before I ever wrote my first check, and my sister is great with money. She saves what she can, and whenever she does spend it’s usually after careful deliberation.

I’ll be twenty-eight at the end of the month, and I’m ashamed (deeply ashamed) to say that I still go through cash like I’m sixteen. I have ZERO dollars saved. The nail-biting and coin-hunting has got to stop. I feel a New Years resolution coming on.

It’s probably not that hard to put away a little money from every paycheck, right? (Lie to me). My insurance company takes a chunk before I ever see the damn deposit slip, and I never miss that. I want to have a nice, tidy amount set aside for potential emergencies or disasters, and NOT for fabulous shoes. I can and will do this. It’s time to be a grown up in this particular area of my life.

Maybe I should get a second job.

Yesterday morning I came to work at eight. Since our part-time help quit last month, I haven’t had time off. I’ve also been working three different shifts, back to back. I had a feeling of dread when I woke up (that could be contributed to lack of sleep), so I grabbed a cappuccino and a donut on my way to work.

The one-two punch of the sugar/caffeine combo is probably what saved my job (and my sanity). I found out shortly after arriving that I was supposed to spend the day training the newbie. Did my boss see fit to inform me that I was training someone? NO, she DID NOT. Which was annoying, but whatever, I adapted (and I deserve EXTRA credit for that because ask anyone, I’m not so great at rolling with the punches).

Anyway, the recruit and I got down to work. And he occasionally felt the need to repeat some of my instructions in short, tone-deaf songs. Okay, I said to myself. Maybe he’s got a pleasant, cheerful personality. So I stomped on my urge to get annoyed. I can be quick to rush to judgment (all of you: NO! Really?), but in the interest of maintaining a pleasant work environment I resisted my instincts.

A valuable lesson: I AM ALWAYS RIGHT. (About people).

He started arguing with me about piddly little shit. And refusing to cooperate. And when I reported this to my superiors (obviously outraged, and with good reason) I was told I can be ‘pushy’ and ‘overbearing’ and that maybe I should just observe. WELL, FINE. I observed. But when someone is doing something WRONG, it’s my responsibility as trainer to correct the mistake, is it not? So I quietly pointed out the error and explained how to properly fill out the form, and he FLIPPED OUT. He cursed at me! He said I was making him feel like a ‘fucking idiot’ among other things.

Me: Suitably appalled.
Recruit: Muttering under his breath incessantly, about what: who knows and who the hell cares? Someone forgot to take his pills, and if I had to wager a guess I’d say the bottle is labeled ‘IN CASE OF CRAZY’.
Me (in a strained, carefully polite voice): “There’s no need to swear at me. I’m trying to help you.”
Recruit: Says other unpleasant things that I do not remember because at the time there was a red haze creeping into my vision and a voice screaming at me to choke the little fucker until he learned some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Remarkably, I didn’t kill him and time continued to pass (at an unreasonably slow, turtle-like pace). Get this: his mood swings make your average pregnant woman seem lovely and level-headed. He was pleasant for a while after that, and then WHAM – back to refusing to follow the rules and questioning everything. Did I mention that he’s the sort of person who employs sarcasm in an untalented, grating manner? As though his goal is to annoy the holy fuck out of you but he’s ‘just kidding’, ha ha?

I spent the rest of the afternoon fantasizing about piercing my pen through the wide, shallow dimple in the fat of his cheek and wondering how to get out of training him today without seeming like a spineless pansy. My conclusion (sadly and with MUCH regret) was that I couldn’t get out of training him without seeming like a punk, so I came in today resolved to remain polite and behave (as in, not acting out any of my multiple murder scenarios, most of which have very satisfying endings).

My patience is wearing thin, people. Thank god there’s only a few hours left (and thank god for long lunches, which is less about my being nice and more about getting him the fuck out of my hair).

I will not kill him. I will be polite and helpful (only when asked). I will NOT be condescending, as my  condescending co-worker (interestingly enough) accused me of. I will go home and inhale a pint of maple nut ice cream, as is my right.